


Play or Get Played

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:23:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4261530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Imayoshi asks him out, Miyaji says he's already dating someone. The only problem is, he actually isn't--so when Higuchi promises Imayoshi that Miyaji's special someone will be showing up to a party, the only thing to do is to find someone willing to pretend to date him, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play or Get Played

**Author's Note:**

  * For [risquetendencies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/risquetendencies/gifts).



Since their embarrassing televised loss to Jabberwock, Kasamatsu’s decided that the members of team STRKY should make a more concentrated effort in practice, which includes ramping up the number of hours they spend together polishing their game. No one has any complaints—well, Imayoshi had looked as if he might, but had kept his thoughts to himself for once, and the only reason they’re doing this is because they enjoy playing basketball too much to stop it in a semi-organized fashion, even if they don’t have the time to play for their school teams right now, as they’re sorting out class schedules and work and the stress of living on their own. Higuchi especially works long hours, which he does to afford his really nice apartment—but still, the more he works the less time he has to actually spend there and he might just be past the critical point in Miyaji’s opinion (although Miyaji knows enough about himself to know that his priorities skew differently than other people’s, including with regards to standard of living—he doesn’t care if he’s lying on a mattress on the floor as long as he has the means to live and save money and play basketball, and Higuchi is in many ways different from him).

He’s trying to get a different part-time job as a waiter in a swanky restaurant with a better salary (and going by what Miyaji knows from stopping by his current job, he’s certainly polite and professional enough to get it, and customers love him—Miyaji himself would never have enough patience for that kind of job, but that’s another difference between the two of them) so his phone has been on for all of practice. The thing is, it keeps ringing and it’s never the restaurant—Kasamatsu’s angry that their drills are getting interrupted and Higuchi’s angry that it’s not the restaurant and Miyaji’s angry that they’re angry and for the same damn reasons they are. The phone rings again; Higuchi jogs over and silences it.

“Just fucking block the number,” says Miyaji. “We don’t have time for this.”

“He’ll just use another number,” says Higuchi. “It’s just a minor annoyance—although it’s your fault, anyway.”

For a few seconds all that’s in the air is the sound of their breathing—they’re back to doing suicides to build up strength and endurance; they’ve all gotten better and they’re not at the point where it really starts to get hard yet.

“How is it my fault?” says Miyaji.

“It’s Hayama,” says Higuchi. “He keeps calling about you. He wants me to set you two up on a date.”

“You’re telling him there’s no way in hell that’s ever going to happen, right?”

Higuchi shrugs. “Pretty much. He keeps calling anyway. I blocked his number but he borrows Mibuchi or someone’s phone, and I just keep ignoring him or telling him off and hope that he’ll give up and find something better to occupy his time.”

“Excuse you,” says Miyaji, breathing a little bit harder now. “There’s nothing better to spend your time on than me. Not that I want attention from him, but you know.”

Higuchi’s phone rings again, and he jogs over to his bag again—but he answers it this time. Miyaji can’t keep watching him, though; he’s starting to really have to focus on the suicides, the movement of his knees and legs that are rapidly turning to jelly and crumpling under him. He tells himself that he can handle it, that he’s handled worse (when he’s in better shape, sure, but still) and that he can just drag himself from end to end. He can feel someone else watching him, too, and tries to focus on that instead of the sharpness in his throat like a million tiny toothpicks stabbing him and puckering and drying the inside. It’s not Higuchi; Miyaji can still see him out of the corner of his eye and Higuchi is still on the phone, looking animated as he talks to whichever presumable restaurant management person he needs to. Lucky bastard gets to skip these—but he’s nto building up his strength, and this kind of exercise is thankless in the short term but invaluable in the long run. Basketball is a game of strength, physical and mental, and this running will not break him in either way. It hasn’t before and it sure as hell won’t now. He tries to block out the feeling (because it’s stupid, anyway; everyone else is concentrating on their running, too) but then he turns to flick his hair out of his face and his eyes fall on Imayoshi—and Imayoshi’s not being shy at all about the way he’s looking at Miyaji.

Miyaji feels his face flush, although it probably doesn’t make a damn difference in terms of his appearance but still. It feels like losing. And why the fuck is Imayoshi looking at him anyway? What’s his deal? Is there something on Miyaji’s face? On his shirt? It shouldn’t fucking matter.

Kasamatsu calls them over just then anyway; Miyaji leans against the wall to catch his breath and because his legs are feeling kind of shaky still and Imayoshi smirks at him. Miyaji scowls back; fuck that—just because he looks like shit doesn’t mean he’s totally out of practice and not ready for their next match. Higuchi sounds as if he’s trying to finish up his phone conversation but he looks happy; at least someone’s day is going well. He finally hangs up, tosses his phone in his bag, and grins.

“I got the job!”

“Congratulations, man,” says Okamura. “That’s great news.”

“Yeah,” says Miyaji. “Way to go.”

Imayoshi gives him the thumbs up and Kasamatsu claps him on the shoulder before clearing his throat.

“So. I’ve got an announcement, too. We’re playing against a streetball team from Kyoto in about a month; I’m still outlining the details with them, but it looks like it’s going to be a thing. So let’s work hard toward that, yeah?”

“Kyoto? What team?” says Higuchi.

“They’re called the Rock Lobsters. I think they won a couple of recent tournaments.”

Higuchi shrugs. “Never heard of them.”

“Anyway,” says Kasamatsu. “I think we should just have a shoot around or whatever, and then leave early, think about the game. Imayoshi’s going to get some scouting on them. Hopefully he won’t be late to their games like he is to practice.”

“I’m wounded that you’d say that, Kasamatsu. Absolutely wounded,” says Imayoshi.

Kasamatsu shoves him, but he’s not seriously mad right now—he probably would have had them all do more suicides if he was. He checks the basketball in his hands to Higuchi, and then they all take the court.

Everything goes well; Miyaji drags his tired ass through the rest of practice but when it’s over and they’re hitting the showers he’s definitely looking forward to that good night’s sleep he’s going to get as soon as his head hits the pillow.

“Party at my place next weekend?” says Higuchi. “To celebrate the job and get pumped for the game?”

“Saturday?” says Okamura.

“Yeah,” says Higuchi.

“I’m working all day, so I don’t know. But I’d like to come.”

“That’s all right,” says Higuchi. “You can just stop by for a couple of minutes anyway if you want that.”

Okamura grunts. All of Miyaji’s teammates are getting into the shower but Miyaji’s still taking off his shirt—he’s feeling the effects of practice in the worst kind of way.

“You okay?” says Higuchi.

“I’m good. Just taking my time,” says Miyaji. “Don’t wait for me.”

Higuchi nods (probably still thinking about that party and about his apartment); Miyaji finishes undressing. By the time he’s got his towel on a couple of guys have already finished showering, and normally Miyaji hates taking too long but today is different. He lets the shampoo sit in his hair as he lathers it up, covers every inch of his body with soap before rinsing, and stays under the water for a few extra, precious seconds before turning it off and grabbing his towel again. By the time he steps out into the main area, he’s definitely the last in the room. But he doesn’t mind walking back to the train station alone and waiting there (and if he times it just right the train will be only a couple of minutes away when he gets there).

He turns off the light and closes up the locker room behind him as he exits, and when he gets outside he almost doesn’t notice Imayoshi.

“Forget something?”

Imayoshi shrugs his thin shoulders. “Just waiting for you.”

“You heard me tell Higuchi not to bother waiting up for me. That applies to you, too.”

“But I thought you might get lonely walking to the station.”

“Nah. I’m good, if you want to go ahead.”

“But I’m already here. Unless you don’t want to walk with me?”

Miyaji really doesn’t, but Imayoshi’s a teammate and things are already a little bit awkward between them (mostly stemming from Miyaji absolutely not knowing how to handle him, even after nearly a year of playing together). And they can always talk about video game strategy together, anyway; even if they don’t always agree it’s a pretty chill topic when they get into it and sure enough they’re almost halfway to the train station before Miyaji even notices. But even that conversation falls into a lull at some point, and it’s then when it goes in a seemingly-odd direction.

“So, Miyaji.”

“So, Imayoshi.”

“You’re probably wondering why I waited for you, hmm?”

Miyaji shrugs. “Not really.”

“See, the thing is, Miyaji, I think you’re cute.”

Miyaji blinks. What in the deep-fried hell? Cute? He may have a baby face, but he’s fucking taller and stronger than Imayoshi, and he is most certainly not cute. And, wait, does this mean Imayoshi thinks he’s attractive? (Of course, Miyaji would like to think that he is attractive, but the thought of having Imayoshi finding him that way is more than a little unsettling.)

“Do you want to maybe go out sometime?”

“You mean, like,” says Miyaji, “On a date?”

Imayoshi nods. “Precisely. I’m glad you’re getting it.”

Miyaji holds up a hand—not exactly the best gesture in this situation, especially considering how awkward that might make things. Shit. “Uh.”

Imayoshi tilts his head. “What was that?”

“I’m sorry,” says Miyaji. “You’re a good teammate, and, uh, a cool dude and all, but…I’m already seeing someone right now. So I really can’t.”

Imayoshi frowns. “That so?”

“Yeah,” says Miyaji. “Sorry.”

“Is it anyone I know?”

Shit. He can’t let himself be called on this bullshit so early. But they’re coming up on the elevated train station and thankfully the fates have given him the perfect escape; he can hear the train coming and so can Imayoshi.

“Look, I really have to catch this train,” says Miyaji. “I’ll see you at the next practice!”

So, okay, he practically flies up the steps and looks around five times once he gets inside the train car to make sure Imayoshi’s not following him before he breathes easy. Next practice is going to be hell what with avoiding Imayoshi and making sure he doesn’t find out about certain lies, but Miyaji’s too tired to even attempt to get that figured out right now.

* * *

Miyaji’s still a bit in shock the next day; it’s hard for him to pay attention in class (although for once they’re not really learning anything important in anything he has that day, just tangential semi-relevant material) and thankfully it’s slow at work—things only start to make sense that afternoon when he talks them over with Kimura at the grocery store. It’s a slow day there, too; they’ve gotten lots of bulk orders and Kimura’s dad is out taking care of them. His brother’s still at basketball practice (Miyaji would like to say it harkens back to a more innocent time, thinking of that, although Kimura always reminds him that it was really just a year or so ago for the two of them) and so it’s just the two of them, walking among the aisles of familiarly-stacked produce and tossing out rotten pieces of fruit and vegetables.

“I mean, he asked me out. Imayoshi asked me out.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed by your prowess or something?” says Kimura.

Miyaji continues to dig through the ginger root until he finds a rotten piece and proceeds to throw it at Kimura. Kimura, of course, catches it and tosses it in the trash bag.

“He’d be quite a catch. Didn’t you say you two were getting along better? Doesn’t he like those puzzle video games?”

Miyaji rolls his eyes. “Well, yeah, but like that’s…what it is. Just because I’m okay with talking to him does not mean I want him for a boyfriend.”

“Well, why not? Aren’t you the one who’s always whining to me about how you can’t get a date?”

“That’s different. He’s creepy. And now I actually need a date, anyway.”

“Why? If you need one that badly, he’ll do. You can let him down easy afterward.”

“No, dumbass. I told him I was already dating someone.”

“I’m the dumbass?”

Miyaji throws another rotten piece of ginger at him; Kimura catches it with the garbage bag this time.

“I mean,” Kimura continues, “You could have just told him what you told me. That you like hanging out and talking with him, but just not as a boyfriend. That’s valid; he’d probably be fine with it.”

“But he would just ask me why I didn’t think he was boyfriend material; I mean he asked me why I said no anyway. I can’t just tell my teammate I think he’s creepy.”

“You told Midorma and Takao exactly what you thought of them last year and had no trouble at all—”

“They were just kids! That’s different.”

“Yeah, okay,” says Kimura.

Miyaji scowls at the asparagus in front of him, bright green even in the dim light away from the window. It’s not fair; Kimura’s supposed to be his friend and he’s supposed to help—okay, maybe it’s kind of Miyaji’s fault but Miyaji would like to see Kimura do any better under that kind of pressure. He’d be willing to bet Kimura wouldn’t handle Imayoshi all that well, maybe even not as well as Miyaji had handled him (which hadn’t exactly been all that well, but still).

He hears the bell on the top of the door ring faintly, tiredly the way Miyaji’s getting tired of bending over to pick through the produce bins (but he’s still going to finish this damn aisle because he’s not a quitter and because Kimura asked him to—he’s clearly getting out of shape if this is the case, basketball or no basketball).

“Shinsuke-nii!”

So it’s not a customer, then. Miyaji pops up, peering around the end of the aisle to wave at Kimura’s brother.

“How was practice? Is Yuuya giving you any trouble? Because if he is, I’ll fucking run him over for you.”

“Oh! Kiyoshi-san. No, Captain’s very demanding but very fair.”

“Good,” says Miyaji, turning back to the peppers in his hands. “I’m sure he expects a lot from you, but it’s not unwarranted.”

“Yes!”

What a cute kid—if only Miyaji’s own brother could be that cute.

“How are things with you, Kiyoshi-san?”

“Fine,” says Miyaji.

“You should congratulate him,” says Kimura. “On his new fake boyfriend and all.”

This time Miyaji pegs Kimura in the head with a fresh pepper—the pepper stays in one piece as it rolls to the floor, but Kimura glares at him.

“You’re paying for that. Don’t throw the good ones.”

“Add it to my tab,” says Miyaji. “But, yeah, I got asked out by an acquaintance of mine and then the guy asked me why I said no and I said I was already with someone else. That’s it. That’s the whole story.”

Kimura’s brother shrugs; Miyaji supposes at his age he might only be thinking of basketball—but then he tosses his schoolbag behind the counter and points at Miyaji.

“Do you have a good cover story? In case the guy asks after him.”

“Don’t help him,” says Kimura.

“You think it’d be funny if I got found out?”

“You’d deserve it.”

He’s going to actually fucking run Kimura over.

* * *

 

Thanks to his part-time job and a stupid school group project (which is finally over), Miyaji’s missed the last two Wednesday outings with the team, which sucks because they’re probably his favorite part of the week. There’s nothing like kicking back and running up the bar tab until he’s too tired to really make a big deal out of all the money he’s spending—and considering that they’ll split appetizers and a carafe of sake (or two or three) or something, it’s usually not a very large sum anyway. They always bring whichever of their friends can come; it’s usually people from basketball (Miyaji’s brought Kimura a few times) or friends from school or work, and it’s always low-key enough to be comfortable for everyone.

Except when Imayoshi sits beside Miyaji this week—on his other side, Okamura’s deep in conversation with Kasamatsu’s work buddy, talking about about some adventure book series he likes that sounds boring as hell. Fuck, he is doomed—Imayoshi probably already knows he made up the whole dating-someone thing or at the very least suspects and plans to torture Miyaji all evening long. And this is after Miyaji’s managed to avoid one-on-one time with him all week, being the first to change and arriving way later than he normally considers permissible for himself or anyone else (but these circumstances have been very special in the worst fucking kind of way). So, yeah, this is already uncomfortable and Miyaji’s got the feeling that it’s going to get worse, like sitting in a sauna and getting thirstier and thirstier but really wanting to outlast everyone else even when his hair is sticking to his face and he starts to feel dizzy, the sick kind that sneaks up on him.

The thing about Imayoshi is that Miyaji just can’t threaten him or even really feel like running him down with a truck or something. He’s sneaky and off-putting in a way that doesn’t make Miyaji angry per se, just doubtful and confused. That feeling makes him mad, but it’s never directed toward Imayoshi (the actual fucking source) and even when Miyaji tries he doesn’t really want to think about crossing the guy. Fucking four-eyes can read minds—well, not actually, but it seems like he can and Miyaji doesn’t want to test it most of the time, even if he had slapped Takao upside the head the last time they played Touou in high school because he’d suggested Imayoshi was cursing them with some mystic voodoo because the only person who’d actually try that would be their own stupid four-eyes, and Takao shouldn’t disrespect his elders like that, and the truth is Miyaji doesn’t want to think about that shit (even if he doesn’t believe in that kind of mysticism at all, thank you very much, and even if it’s not Imayoshi’s style at all, it’s still pretty creepy to imagine Imayoshi sticking pins into dolls shaped like his opponents—not that Miyaji’s ever actually imagined that).

And it’s not that he hates or even really fears Imayoshi; he’s usually pretty easy to get along with despite his nature and he’s a pretty damn good basketball player, and talking about sports or gaming with him definitely isn’t a drag. Miyaji wouldn’t say they’re quite friends yet—it’s more like it’s getting harder to imagine Imayoshi sticking pins in a voodoo doll shaped like him or his friends (well, sometimes Miyaji has his doubts) and easier to talk to him about everyday stuff. Well, it had been headed in that direction until Imayoshi had put his feelings into the mix and made things a thousand times more weird all over again.

Imayoshi pulls out his chair and sits down with a cheery wave to Miyaji. “No plus-one today? That’s a pity.”

“He, uh, couldn’t make it,” says Miyaji with a shrug. “What about you? Haven’t you been looking?”

Imayoshi laughs. “Well, it’s funny you’d ask. I did tell my best friend to come meet me, but who knows if he’ll actually show? He’s quite unreliable, you know.”

Miyaji has no idea who this best friend is, but considering how casually Imayoshi pops in and out of team meetings (probably mostly to fuck with Kasamatsu, who has zero qualms about getting mad at him and chewing him out in front of everyone else, and never buys his excuses) Imayoshi’s description of his reliability is either a little bit suspect or very, very telling.

“Imayoshi?”

Miyaji swivels—in the restaurant door stand a very angry-looking man who Miyaji recognizes as one of the Touou forwards. He must have been in their year, although Miyaji doesn’t remember anything in particular about him.

“Susa, you’re late. You left me here all alone in a social situation that I couldn’t handle.”

Susa rolls his eyes and grabs the seat on the other side of Imayoshi. “Right. Like you weren’t actually having a conversation. You’re the rude one for abandoning it, anyway—and I told you I might get out of work late.”

Miyaji stifles an incredulous sort of sound in his throat. Imayoshi’s whining at him like a spoiled kid to their mother and Susa is shutting him down basically like an exasperated parent. Undaunted, Imayoshi turns up his chin at Susa and turns back to Miyaji.

“Excuse my friend’s bad manners.”

At that, Miyaji has to snort.

“Excuse my friend for being a dick,” says Susa under his breath.

“As unreliable as Susa is, he still cared enough to come out here today,” says Imayoshi. “But it really is sad that your boyfriend couldn’t.”

“He’s not around,” says Miyaji, vaguely irritated now.

He’s almost feeling defensive of how much this imaginary boyfriend actually cares for him—so what if he couldn’t make it today? (Even if it’s because he doesn’t exist, well—if he did he’d care; Miyaji wouldn’t go out with anyone who’d do this shit in a half-assed way, thank you very much. He’s got self-respect.) Susa nods to Miyaji and then focuses on Imayoshi, trying to look stern.

“Stop saying shit like that.”

“Aw, Susa, so you didn’t have to force yourself?”

Susa rolls his eyes and mouths an apology to Miyaji. Miyaji just shrugs—it seems like he’s about to engage Imayoshi in a long and pointless argument (rather like the ones Imayoshi has with Kasamatsu on an almost per-practice basis that starts out about running plays and ends up in nonsense and quick retorts) and that means Miyaji doesn’t have to deal with Imayoshi and his questions that Miyaji’s simply not prepared to answer at the moment, given how little of a story he has to go with this make-believe boyfriend (okay, so maybe he should have listened to Kimura about that).

And when Higuchi, late for perhaps the only time since Miyaji’s known him (which, granted, has been a very short while but he’s come to rely on Higuchi as a punctuality buddy), slides into the seat across the table, Miyaji immerses himself in his tale of really shitty traffic and every light being red at exactly the wrong time. And he doesn’t make a point of not talking to Imayoshi per se, but, well. It’s not a coincidence that the only words they exchange for the rest of the night are part of a larger conversation or requests to pass the salt.

* * *

 

“Imayoshi wants to know if your paramour is coming to the party.”

Miyaji blinks. “My what now?”

“Paramour. His word, not mine. I didn’t know you were getting laid regularly,” says Higuchi, grinning over the back of the couch.

Miyaji whacks him over the head with the arts page of the newspaper, briefly contemplating threatening to rip up today’s sudoku before Higuchi can get to it—but that might be too much. “I’m not, but I told Imayoshi I had a boyfriend.”

“So that’s a yes, then, that he’s coming?” Higuchi’s thumb hovers over the surface of his phone.

“No! He doesn’t fucking exist!”

“Why did you tell Imayoshi about him then?”

“Because he was hitting on me,” says Miyaji. “I didn’t want to make things awkward for the team and all, but I really don’t want to date him and so I told him I was seeing someone else.”

“Imayoshi’s cool,” says Higuchi. “I don’t think he’d make it an issue.”

“But it would be awkward for me,” says Miyaji.

“And rejecting him because of your imaginary boyfriend isn’t awkward at all,” says Higuchi. “Right.”

Miyaji tries to hit him with the newspaper again, but this time Higuchi dodges.

“I’m telling him yes,” says Higuchi, shit-eating grin on his face.

Miyaji lunges at him over the couch; Higuchi stands and darts over to the other side of the coffee table, phone clutched in hand.. Miyaji rolls to his feet, grabbing Higuchi’s wrist with one hand and trying to catch his hand in the other. He twists away, almost judo-flipping Miyaji (goddamn, at least it comes in handy in basketball) and pries away Miyaji’s fingers the moment they slacken just slightly. Miyaji grabs the back of Higuchi’s shirt, but it’s too late; Higuchi holds up the phone.

“Sent.”

Miyaji tries to tackle him again; even if he’s screwed he might as well get Higuchi for it. Higuchi evades his clutches again, though, and Miyaji falls to the carpet. He can hear Higuchi gasping with laughter and wishes he were close enough to pull Higuchi’s ankle out from under him.

“You’d better find me a boyfriend, then,” says Miyaji.

“What, in two days? You find yourself one. It’s your fault, anyway; you should have told him the truth.”

Miyaji hoists himself into a sitting position and groans. There’s no way he’s going to get out of this one—Kimura’s not going to bail him out; his brother certainly won’t; Higuchi apparently refuses to help even though it’s (okay, only mostly) his fucking fault. But there’s no way he can ask someone to go out with him but pretend they’ve been dating for a while, or even just pretend to date him for the weekend. And Imayoshi will probably ask to see the guy again, and if Miyaji pretends to have dumped him he’ll be right back at square one without an excuse to get Imayoshi to back off the next time he tries to get Miyaji to go out with him (and Miyaji can only stretch the imagined pain of a breakup so far).

Higuchi’s phone vibrates. Miyaji sighs; it’s probably Imayoshi. (He’d better not be asking Higuchi for the details on Miyaji’s significant other. That would just take the fucking cake.)

“Hayama? What’s up?”

Miyaji breathes a sigh of relief. Hayama’s an annoying little bastard, but he’s got nothing to do with Imayoshi, and he’s also (presumably) in Kyoto, far away from where he can do any harm to Miyaji.

“Oh, yeah, actually Miyaji’s here right now.”

Well, fuck; he’d thought that too soon. Miyaji shakes his head violently at Higuchi. He’d better fucking not.

“He was wondering something, but he’s too shy to say it himself. You know, he needs a date to this party in a couple of days…”

Miyaji’s eyes widen. No. Fuck no. He stands up.

“Yeah, uh-huh. I’ll pay your train fare. And you have to pretend you guys have been dating for a while, okay? Great. Great.”

Miyaji lunges at him right as he hangs up the phone.

“I thought you wanted a date,” says Higuchi. “I told you he’s been badgering me about setting you two up since that stupid televised game when he found out we were playing together, so I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. If you can find someone else, then you can call him back and tell him that, though.”

Miyaji flops back onto the couch. He probably shouldn’t think about things can’t get worse, because if he does Higuchi might put Hayama up at Miyaji’s house or take them out the day after with Imayoshi in tow or something equally bad.

“You’re an asshole, Higuchi; I hope you know that,” Miyaji says into the cushions.

* * *

 

The two days pass as if Miyaji’s sleeping through them; they’re way too quick and it’s still sinking in that he has to act like he and Hayama Kotarou are a couple. The kid’s still in fucking high school; there’s no way they’ll pull it off—there’s no way he’ll be able to pretend to actually like (or even tolerate) Hayama; there’s no way Hayama’s not going to take advantage of the situation and claw at him and make those dopey eyes at him and it’s going to be a fucking disaster. Still, it’s not like he’s found anything better—certainly not anything he could do to both make Hayama stay home and find a suitable substitute. And the party’s not that long, and Hayama being in Kyoto might be a good thing—at least it makes it believable that Miyaji hasn’t introduced him to Imayoshi before.

Still, though, this is Hayama. Miyaji’s not going to hope for all that much.

Higuchi calls him over an hour or so before the party; there’s something like nervous anticipation in his stomach and this sounds like some cliché love story when he thinks about it but it’s not. It’s like the anticipation before the Rakuzan game—perhaps an apt comparison, considering who he’s meeting. But he’s not afraid, just not particularly happy. Maybe they can pregame and he can go through the whole thing hammered enough not to be bothered by Hayama (although knowing Higuchi he’ll refuse to let Miyaji have that much).

He rings the doorbell, focusing his energy on not tapping his foot. He’s not that nervous; this isn’t going to be that bad.

The door opens, and there’s Hayama and Miyaji’s about to flinch but instead of glomping him Hayama takes his hand and grins up at him.

“Miyaji-san! It’s so good to see you!”

Miyaji blinks. “Uh. It’s, uh, good to see you, too.”

Hayama grins and twitches, as if he’s going to throw himself into Miyaji’s chest but doesn’t, grabbing Miyaji’s arm instead and pulling him in.

“Come on; Higu-san’s ignoring me and doing sudoku. He’s so boring sometimes.”

“Oi, watch your mouth,” says Miyaji. “He’s the one putting you up.”

“Oddly enough, I agree with you. But we’re here, too, Kotarou, and we’re not boring.”

Miyaji’s head swivels toward the voice; it’s somewhat familiar but it certainly isn’t Higuchi’s. And he almost steps backward when he sees that Rakuzan uncrowned pretty boy, Mibuchi—and nestled in the arms of that gorilla guy Nebuya, no less. Do those kids travel in packs or something? Miyaji half-expects that horrible Akashi kid or that guy with the grey hair (or fucking both of them) to step out from the kitchen or the bathroom or the bedroom or something, but after a couple seconds when Higuchi and those three seem to be the only ones here aside from him he breathes a little bit easier.

“Why are you here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” says Mibuchi, flicking what seems to be an imaginary speck of dust from his nails before looking Miyaji straight in the eye. “What do you think you’re doing with Kotarou?”

“Hold up,” says Miyaji. “He agreed to do this, and I asked you a question—unless I’m supposed to assume you’re going to threaten me for quote-unquote doing something to Hayama, and despite what he might say we haven’t—”

“Oh, I know you haven’t,” says Mibuchi, “We’re just here to make sure nothing happens to Kotarou.”

Miyaji groans. “I know this is fake. You know this is fake—you do, right?” he says, turning to Hayama.

“You mean we’re not actually going to do couple stuff?” Hayama says, that stupid snaggletooth visible in his grin. “Only kidding.”

Miyaji’s willing to bet he isn’t—but then again, Hayama’s gotten a little bit less overzealous (not that that’s hard) and a little bit cuter. Well, fuck; that wasn’t hard, either. But still, the way he’s hopping along and bouncing on his feet and pulling on Miyaji’s arm isn’t as irritating as it once was. It’s not like he’s incredibly attractive or anything—no, not at all, Miyaji decides, running a hand through his hair. Higuchi casts an amused look at them from the couch and Miyaji sticks up his middle finger.

“Kotarou, he’s really vulgar. I don’t think you should even pretend—”

“He fucking agreed to do it. He came all the way to Tokyo to do this. Which I do appreciate it. But I’d appreciate it even more if you just butted out, Kid. This is his decision.”

“I’m just—”

“Reo,” says Nebuya, finally speaking up. “Chill. They’re both clear on their plan; they’re on the same page; this is only a few hours and we came to have fun.”

“Maybe you did,” Mibuchi grumbles, but after that he miraculously shuts up.

Hayama’s still pulling at his arm and trying to snuggle against him, and Miyaji feels like he already needs a beer (or two or five) because no matter how much he’s been thinking about it there’s no way he can deal with just the one kid, let alone three with little to no help from Higuchi.

“You got anything to drink?”

“Not until the party,” says Higuchi. “Shouldn’t you two practice acting all lovey-dovey or something? Get the story of how you actually got together straight?”

Miyaji swears under his breath; Midorima must have sent the curse of Oha-Asa (not that Miyaji believes in that shit) on his whole family for something his brother did; that’s the only explanation for all this shit from Higuchi (he makes a mental note to yell at Yuuya for whatever it was he did the next time he goes home for dinner). Not that getting their story straight in and of itself is bad, but practicing? He’s pretty sure Hayama’s usual affections could help them pull that off (and Miyaji distinctly remembers once Takao remarking that Miyaji’s resistance to Hayama’s affections makes him look a bit like an embarrassed boyfriend, after which Kimura and Ootsubo had both had to restrain Miyaji so he wouldn’t hurt their starting point guard and if Takao hadn’t been so important to the team then Miyaji would have gone the extra mile and actually gotten into a truck and tried to run him over).

“Ooh, Miyaji-san, can we?”

Hayama looks up, widening his already-huge eyes and goddamn it Miyaji feels almost a little bit uncomfortable. It’s not because that face looks adorable from this angle at all; it’s just that he doesn’t want to. He sighs—they have to, though, and even if he’s going to complain the whole time he’s going to fucking do it. In the background, Mibuchi coughs in what is probably meant to be a disapproving way—but for once Miyaji’s just going to ignore him. Maybe if he doesn’t get any attention he’ll stop trying for it.

“Sure. How’d we meet?”

“At the match,” Hayama chirps, squeezing his arm. “But then you were intrigued by that hot, amazing forward—”

“Don’t get too carried away,” Miyaji grumbles.

“What? I did win the matchup,” Hayama says, grinning.

Little shit. “Yeah, and then you guys lost to Seirin. Who we tied with, if you remember.”

Hayama rolls his eyes. “Whatever. We came up against some guy who ass-pulled one special skill of beating Reo-nee. Otherwise we would have won.”

“Look at you two, bickering like an old married couple,” says Higuchi.

“Go back to your damn sudoku,” says Miyaji.

The doorbell rings.

“Okay, party’s here,” says Miyaji. “Can I get a beer now?”

“Get the door first.”

Hayama has decided he’s not letting go, and Miyaji half-drags him to the door.

“Miyaji-san, we didn’t get to practice,” Hayama whines.

“Yeah, well, we can practice in front of Imayoshi,” Miyaji says, opening the door.

What’s that proverb about speaking of the devil? Well, whatever; he’s here.

“What was that about me?” says Imayoshi.

“Nothing. We were just discussing who it was going to be, and you’re the only one I knew was coming.”

“That so?” says Imayoshi, eyes flickering toward Hayama. “Well, well, a high schooler? I reckon that’s why you didn’t want to tell me who he was, hmm?”

“We met when we were both in high school,” Hayama says with a grin.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Miyaji, awkwardly leaning down to kiss Hayama’s forehead. “Get me a beer, will you…baby?”

He almost cringes as he says it, but Hayama lights up. “Sure thing!”

Imayoshi and Miyaji watch as he skips off to the kitchen—Miyaji’s totally not staring at his ass; he’s only trying to make it look like that (and he has to be convincing, because closed eyes or not Imayoshi notices way more than he ought to).

“My, my,” says Imayoshi. “Someone’s smitten.”

Miyaji scratches his head and shrugs.

“You two make a very cute couple. I hope you don’t think I was trying to come between you.”

“Nah, water under the bridge and all,” says Miyaji, waving his hand.

Where the hell is Higuchi? Miyaji glares at the couch, but he’s not there and neither are Mibuchi and Nebuya—must be in the kitchen. Assholes, all of them. And then Hayama returns, two bottles in hand. He gives one to Miyaji and raises the other to his lips.

“Don’t drink that; you’re still underage,” says Miyaji.

Hayama blinks up at him. “But we do other things even though I’m underage, like—”

“Shut up and drink the damn beer,” says Miyaji loudly.

He’s aware his face is turning red. Imayoshi’s grinning (almost fucking leering, as if he wants in on their sex life—which is nonexistent, but anyway, Miyaji wraps an arm around Hayama. Even he doesn’t deserve that kind of creepy insinuation; Miyaji can only hope he isn’t paying close enough attention to get it). And where the hell is Higuchi? Where’s Mibuchi? He could make a fuss over Hayama and that damn beer of his—but then again, he might pull the focus too far off or decide to give away the fact that nothing is actually going on with Hayama and Miyaji (and Miyaji doesn’t know him well enough to definitively say he wouldn’t), or it won’t give them enough time to convince Imayoshi that they’re really, truly an item.

The doorbell rings again and Miyaji pulls the door open. He wouldn’t have chosen Okamura as his savior, but he’ll do for now.

Okamura stares at Hayama, and then his eyes swivel back to Miyaji, then to Hayama’s arm wound through Miyaji’s and okay, Miyaji gets it; they’re a weird couple.

“Long time no see,” says Hayama. “Did you know Miyaji-san and I are dating?”

Miyaji tries to discreetly jab Hayama; he’s laying it on way too thick. Maybe they should move away from the door; maybe they should let Imayoshi answer it (or Higuchi, if he hasn’t decided to be absent from his own goddamn party).

“I, uh, see,” says Okamura.

Hayama squeezes Miyaji’s arm and grins up at him. “I don’t get to come in from Kyoto too often, you know. And I brought Reo-nee and Ei-chan.”

“I’m sure,” says Okamura.

Miyaji pats Hayama’s shoulder. “Well, we’ve, uh, got tonight.”

“Let’s do lots of naughty things, then,” Hayama says in a singsong voice. “Since, for once…”

Okamura’s face freezes between expressions, and Miyaji knees Hayama in the thigh.

“Don’t try to take my clothes off here, you fucking brat.”

Miyaji almost grimaces; this isn’t convincing at all even with the way Hayama’s hanging off his arm. Miyaji pulls him away toward the kitchen; it’s time for another drink—for the both of them. Maybe Hayama will finally fucking settle down or doze off or something.

* * *

 

Miyaji had invited Kimura to the party, but that was before all the shit with Higuchi and Hayama actually went down, none of which Kimura actually knows about yet. And he’s still not sure if Kimura’s coming or not—the fruit stand might be closing early today, but Kimura had been noncommittal and Miyaji understands. Work is work and needs to be done, and parties aren’t the best places to chill and catch up anyway, especially when one of them has a little rabid parasite attached to his arm who’s basically trying to pull it out of its socket.

But he does show up, a little after Miyaji’s given up on him actually making it, and takes one look at Hayama wrapped around Miyaji’s arm and puts up a hand.

“Do I want to know?”

“Get Kimura a drink,” says Miyaji, shoving Hayama in the direction of the kitchen. “Someone there will know what he likes.”

Hayama kisses Miyaji on the cheek and if he wasn’t sure Imayoshi would somehow fucking find out about him doing it he’d wipe the area because it’s still wet and gross (and he still has to deal with fucking Kimura smirking at him like that).

“Is this…what is this?” says Kimura.

Miyaji glances around; Imayoshi’s across the room with his back to them. Still, better safe than sorry.

“It’s fake,” he hisses under his breath. “Higuchi told Miyaji my boyfriend would be at the party, so I had to find one somewhere.”

“And you picked him?”

“Higuchi did. It’s all his fucking fault; I’m going to run him over.”

“You looked like you were enjoying the attention,” says Kimura. “And I think it’s kind of cute, even though you probably don’t deserve it.”

“I do so deserve it,” says Miyaji. “Who wouldn’t want to be with me?”

“Well, clearly not Imayoshi.”

Miyaji makes a move to hit him, but Kimura ducks back, almost slamming into Nebuya’s back—he’s behind them, pressing Mibuchi against the wall and making out with him furiously. And they were the ones talking about restraint and safety earlier. Fucking typical, they probably just came here because they wanted to be somewhere that wasn’t a school dorm so they could stick their tongues down each other’s throat, not for solidarity or protecting Hayama or anything like that at all.

“Wait,” says Kimura. “Aren’t those—”

“Yes,” says Miyaji. “Yes, they are. I don’t fucking know anymore, okay? I really fucking don’t. I give up with all these fucking kids.”

“Why are they here?”

“I don’t know…making out, supposedly helping Hayama—where is he? Does he have your drink?”

“I don’t care about the drink,” says Kimura. “But you sure seem attached.”

“Fuck you,” says Miyaji.

And then Hayama pops up from almost out of nowhere; Miyaji jumps so high his head almost fucking hits the ceiling.

“Where the fuck did you come from?”

“The kitchen,” says Hayama, handing Kimura his drink and returning to Miyaji’s side.

Miyaji almost reflexively winds his arm around Hayama’s waist, and Kimura can just go to hell for that smirk he’s giving them. They basically have to act like a couple here, what with everyone, especially Nebuya and Mibuchi (if they ever take a break from tonsil hockey).

“Oh, Miyaji, hey. Enjoying yourself?”

And most especially Imayoshi—and speaking of people who creep up from who knows where, none of them saw him coming at all. Miyaji makes a move toward the center of the room, away from the hall and the windows and closer to the door, and Imayoshi follows. Kimura doesn’t, and on one hand Miyaji doesn’t blame him but on the other he’s being a lousy friend right now. At least (for what it’s worth, anyway) he still has Hayama clinging to him like a leech.

“Yeah. It’s a little too frenzied for my tastes, but it’ll do. It’s more Hayama’s speed than mine.”

Hayama perks up like a dog when he hears his name and nods his head in agreement. “It’s super nice of Miyaji-san to invite me.”

“Yeah,” says Imayoshi. “I reckon he might have gone out of his way.”

Oh shit. This conversation is headed toward a place Miyaji definitely does not want or need it to go, but it’s like a derailed train that’s just going to barrel down the route unless something suddenly appears in its way. And then the doorbell rings, hopefully crashing that train as Miyaji practically runs the rest of the way across the room to answer it.

This time his savior is another new guest—Kasamatsu. He’s late as fuck, but considering that he’s dragged Moriyama along it kind of makes sense—Kasamatsu says he’s a stickler for reliability himself (and he really is) but the kind of people he ends up hanging out with are mostly of the unreliable variety, Moriyama included. It’s not that Moriyama means to be that way, though; he’s very easily distracted and generally goes at his own (slower than what Kasamatsu would like or Miyaji would be able to put up with) pace. Miyaji doesn’t know him that well, though, so perhaps he should withhold judgment on this issue in particular, especially since they show up right when Imayoshi’s got Miyaji and Hayama cornered again.

“Yo,” Miyaji says. “Been wondering when you’d show up.”

Kasamatsu shrugs. “It’s this one’s fault. Is Higuchi around?”

“Supposedly he’s somewhere,” says Miyaji, waving his hand vaguely. “Probably in the kitchen.”

“I saw him and Reo-nee talking in the far corner,” says Hayama, squeezing Miyaji’s arm.

Both Kasamatsu’s and Moriyama’s eyes swivel toward Hayama like one of those chairs the bad guy in an over-the-top action movie sits in when the hero runs straight into his lair, except it shouldn’t be a big reveal—should it? Hayama’s been here the whole damn time, bouncing on the balls of his feet and pulling on Miyaji’s arm. Like Okamura and Kimura, they look back and forth from Miyaji to Hayama and this is honestly getting fucking old.

“Wait a second,” says Moriyama. “I didn’t know you liked guys, Miyaji.”

“Not other guys,” says Hayama. “Just me. Right, Miyaji-san?”

He really is laying it on way too damn thick, thicker than icing on an expensive, tacky wedding cake. Miyaji really just wants to lay his head in his hands right now, but that is not an option, especially with Imayoshi grinning like the fucking fox he is from less than a few meters away.

“Actually,” says Imayoshi, “I’ve been wondering about that.”

“What?” says Miyaji. “You think I’ve had my eye on someone else?”

Kasamatsu glances warily from Miyaji to Imayoshi—Miyaji’s guessing he doesn’t really know what’s going on between them, which on one hand is good (the awkwardness hasn’t been noticeable to the rest of the team, because Kasamatsu’s definitely the most sensitive to changes in dynamics like this) but on the other hand is bad because Miyaji really could use the support here (but then again, Kasamatsu would probably decline to participate.

“He hasn’t,” says Hayama.

Miyaji casts a worried glance downward and slips his hand into Hayama’s, squeezing it—there’s not much he can say here (and he really wants to tell Hayama not to fucking panic and that he’s actually going to fucking run Imayoshi over with a truck right now and be done with it) and fuck. Imayoshi’s probably about to call them on their shit and he knew he should have picked someone else and this had all better not go to hell.

“Oh, I’m not saying that,” says Imayoshi. “But he might not be showing as much attention to you as you are to him.”

That’s not fair—hell, even if they were going out it would be impossible to be as fucking focused as Hayama is on Miyaji all the time, how even when his attention is pulled away (as it so often is) he’s still tugging on Miyaji’s arm or has one arm looped around Miyaji’s waist or a hand in Miyaji’s back pocket. He looks back at Hayama, and the bouncing has subsided; he’s chewing on his lip and looks like he might be genuinely distressed. And, okay, if he’s taking this seriously (and he’s the one who fucking said he wouldn’t) this might not be the best idea right now but he’s kind of out of options. He reaches up his hand to Hayama’s chin, and tilts his head up—he can feel the way Hayama’s breath catches in his throat right at the moment his eyes snap wide open and it doesn’t even look that creepy or weird this time.

“Look, Kid,” says Miyaji. “I’m sorry. I, uh.”

Imayoshi looks positively gleeful, like a hunter who’s orchestrated an elaborate trap and the animal who’s been evading him for the past month has finally just stepped into it and gotten caught.

“I’m not that good at expressing my feelings sometimes, but, uh.”

Before he delays this any longer (and no, he’s not losing his nerve) Miyaji squeezes his eyes shut and ducks down, smashing his lips against Hayama’s. He barely has time to get used to the feeling before Hayama’s poking his tongue into Miyaji’s mouth and fuck that’s too far too soon and Miyaji kind of wants to throw Hayama across the room except Imayoshi’s right fucking there so there’s nothing he can do except let Hayama do what he wants, let him scrape his tongue against Miyaji’s teeth and let their teeth clack together (Hayama is moving too close and at weird angles; has he ever kissed anyone like this before? Granted, Miyaji’s not particularly experienced but even so) and taste the beer and something kind of tangy and almost pineapple-like on Hayama’s tongue and lips and okay, maybe this is awkward and too enthusiastic and with Hayama but it’s still not the worst kiss Miyaji’s ever had.

They finally do have to break for air; Miyaji’s breathing hard and when he looks at everyone else they look—disbelieving might not be the right word but it’s got to be close enough. Moriyama’s mouth is so far open the bottom of his jaw might as well be at his knees; Kasamatsu’s face looks as red as a radish. Imayoshi’s eyes are open and Miyaji resists the urge to grin and clench his fist. That kiss was so worth it—and it looks as if they actually might have fooled Imayoshi for once. Hayama nuzzles Miyaji’s chest and squeezes Miyaji’s waist a little too hard; what breath he’s regained leaves him again.

“I’ll never doubt you again, Miyaji-san.”

“Shouldn’t,” Miyaji gasps, and he can’t say much else.

“What the fuck,” says Kasamatsu. “What the fuck was that? Get a room. Just—”

Miyaji nods. If they’ve got an excuse to get away for a few minutes and take a (literal in his case) breather, then they’d fucking better. Hayama willingly lets himself be dragged along into the hallway toward the bathroom; it’s not a permanent hiding spot but it’s dark and it’s better than nothing (or any of their other alternatives).

* * *

 

The rest of the evening actually goes quite well (aided by alcohol, but not copious amounts); Miyaji’s even getting used to the taste of Hayama’s beer-soaked lips, the feeling of the pressure of his mouth from below—and the kisses are a little more than strictly necessary (especially the way they’re progressing), but hey. The kid’s enjoying himself in what seems to be a miraculously semi-controlled way, Imayoshi seems satisfied (although he sticks around the pair of them way more than he fucking should), and Higuchi doesn’t pull any more dick moves (Okamura, however, ends up sobbing about how he’s never going to get laid, while the rest of the guests do their best to ignore him). Miyaji’s actually coming to almost (but not quite, okay?) enjoy the shape of Hayama’s scrawny shoulders under his arm, and as all the other guests begin to trickle out he realizes that it wouldn’t be so bad if this party went on for just a little bit longer and they just had a little bit more time together to extend the farce (to get it into people’s minds and to hammer it home that they’re really and truly going out, of course—for nothing other than that).

Soon the only ones left are the Higuchi, Mibuchi, Nebuya, Hayama, and Miyaji; Miyaji’s arm is still around Hayama and Hayama’s snuggling closer. Miyaji makes a move at shoving him away, but it’s more than kind of half-assed and all of them know it. Higuchi’s eyebrows are both raised.

“You can stop now, you know.”

Hayama yawns, leaning his head against Miyaji’s shoulder.

“Yeah, well,” says Miyaji. “Kid. You want to come back to my place? Higuchi’s is already crowded with the three of them.”

Hayama’s head shoots up like a blown manhole cover and his eyes are suddenly wide open as if he’s been faking his fatigue all along. “Really, Miyaji-san?”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Miyaji.

“I bet we can do things a lot more interesting than sudoku,” says Hayama.

Miyaji pinches his side. Higuchi just stares. Fucking payback.

“You know, I really don’t think we can trust—” Mibuchi starts.

Miyaji glares. He may be a lot of things, but untrustworthy is not fucking one of them. Mibuchi’s voice falters.

“Just let him go,” says Nebuya. “He’ll be fine.”

“I have Miyaji-san to protect me,” says Hayama sleepily and fuck, Miyaji’s cheeks are not flaring right now like fucking stoplights or anything.

Fuck, he really wants to run someone over but maybe at this point it might not be Hayama. Still, he’s got to respond to that in some way, so he pats Hayama’s shoulder.

“Don’t you forget it.”

“Does this mean we’re really going out? Like for real?” Hayama says, eyes snapping open again.

“Don’t push your luck, Kid.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a fic exchange; we gave each other a few prompts and pairings to choose from, so I picked: 
> 
> FAKE DATING – Person A opens their big stupid mouth and tells a would-be suitor that they already have someone they’re dating. An event approaches where they need a date to go with, so they have to quickly find someone to fill that role so they’re not caught in a lie. Luckily for them it works out better than they expected with Person B. Bonus if Person B already liked Person A and if the happy couple attends something other than a wedding.
> 
> Imayoshi as the would-be suitor, Miyaji as Person A, Hayama as Person B.


End file.
